Skinny
by Mad Server
Summary: Dean's sick and hurt and skinny and cold.  Sam addresses all of these issues.  Slash.  And possibly the shmoopiest shmoop that ever shmooped.  I'M SORRY.


Skinny

by Mad Server

:::

Sam slips an icy hand into the waistband of his jeans and waits for it to thaw. He pulls the strings on his sweatshirt hood and sighs into the stale air of the room. He can't see his breath. At least there's that.

It figures that the heating in their room would go out now, just when Dean's got his annual case of bronchitis. Figures too that every other room in town would be taken. Thank you, Winterfest.

Huddled in the motel armchair, lap full of books, Sam taps his pencil on his notepad and gazes across the room at his brother.

Dean's spread across the bed in the near-dark, watching a cooking show. Cool, flickering light catches the wrinkles of his blanket, the hollows of his cheekbones. He looks hypnotized.

"Turn it off, man."

Dean swivels his bleary stare to Sam. "Hn?"

"The TV."

Dean chuffs like a horse and turns his attention back to the screen.

Sam watches a chill ripple through him, despite the hot water bottles Sam's packed into both his armpits. There's another one up beside his foot, on the stack of pillows that props up his sprained knee. "You need to sleep."

Absently, Dean pinches his nose between thumb and forefinger and sniffles. "Mm."

Sam gets up from his creaky chair, steals the remote right out of Dean's hand and shuts off the TV.

"Hey!" Dean sounds like he's waking from a dream.

Sam tosses the clicker onto the other bed and surveys the pale, pissed off expanse of his brother. "Close your eyes and sleep."

"Screw you." Dean pushes up to his elbows as if to go after the channel changer, but the motion stirs up an epic fit of disturbingly wet coughing. He sags back when it's over, wincing and clutching at his thigh.

"You sound friggin' awful." Sam settles on the bed by Dean's hip, lifts the covers away from the injury. He ghosts a hand over the hot skin. "God, we should really ice this."

"No way." Dean's voice is deep from his cold. He shudders and pulls the blankets up to his chin. "In this room? No freakin' way."

Sam strokes careful fingers over Dean's forehead. "I'll keep you warm."

:::

Sam finds a garbage bag in a drawer and tugs open the motel room door to weak sunlight and freezing, motionless air. There's an ice machine in the office, but there's a snowdrift right here. He fills the bag with clean stuff off the top, his hands red and stinging.

Bumping the door shut with his hip, he toes off his boots, brings the prize to Dean. He flips back the covers and settles the bag of snow around the inflamed joint. "You'll thank me later."

Dean's only answer is a plaintive sneeze.

Undoing his jeans to climb into bed beside his brother, Sam surveys Dean's shivering frame and frowns. "Huh."

"Get in here."

"Oh. Yeah." Sam curls himself around Dean's feverish skin, savoring the heat. His palm finds Dean's torso, explores it through the T-shirt. He nuzzles into Dean's hair. "When'd you lose so much weight?"

"What?" Dean sounds irritated but fits himself to Sam like he's made of Silly Putty.

"Your ribs are sticking out." Sam traces one of the ridges. "You're skinny, man."

"You don't like my girlish figure?" Dean snuffles into the soft skin of Sam's neck.

"I'm serious." Sam raises himself on one elbow, waits for Dean to meet his eyes. "How're you doing?"

"Oh, god. If this is the price of heat, Sam, forget it."

"Dean..."

"I'm fine, okay? I just haven't been as hungry lately, that's all."

Sam traces his brother's eyebrows. "Why haven't you?"

"I don't know!"

Sam sighs. "Hmm." He kisses the bruised-looking skin under Dean's tired eyes and settles back in. "What do you want for supper?"

"Supper? What time is it?"

Sam twists for a look at the bedside clock. "Coming up on five."

Dean groans, sniffs back snot. "I don't know. A heater?"

"Cheeseburgers? Chinese?"

"I'm not hungry."

"Pie? I bet I could find you a whole pie."

"Sam, I'm sick."

"Soup?" Sam curls possessive fingers around Dean's hip. "Feed a fever, right?"

Dean shivers one more time, then exhales against Sam's chest. He brushes chapped lips to the underside of Sam's chin and gives a hot, wheezy sigh. "You can fatten me up all you want, dude. Just... gimme a minute."

:::

"Turns out Winterfest isn't all bad," Sam announces, setting two steaming styrofoam cups on the bedside table. He holds up a paper bag and flops down on his stomach beside Dean, who watches him with what looks like weary amusement.

Sam crinkles back the paper and pulls out a huge, flat pastry. A buttery cinnamon smell wafts out. Sam waggles his eyebrows. "Elephant ear?"

Dean obediently crunches the fried dough between sips of hot chocolate, into which Sam may or may not have dumped six creamers. Sam watches contentedly, kisses the sugar off his face when he's done.

"Ahh." Sam cuddles up under the comforter, soothes a hand over Dean's gurgling belly. "Was it good for you?"

Dean stifles a cough, then pats his ass with warm, clumsy fingers. "Baby, you know it."

:::

end

Prompt: _If I have to, I'll beg for this one. Please oh please can someone give me a skinny/sick Dean with a cold, still trying to recover from a pretty bad hunt, in a freezing cold motel room(just cheap, broken heater/no other rooms available), shivering in the dark; and Sam decides to warm him up. Make it as long as you want, and bonus points for emphasis on how thin Dean is. Slash._


End file.
